Jackpot

by Gordon Korman

Mike made a face. “Money. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

  Darren indicated an instant-coffee jar bearing a hand-lettered sign: GIVE TO THE CREATION OF A WOODSTOCK MUSIC FESTIVAL NATIONAL HISTORIC SITE. “Seems like money’s not so terrible when it suits you,” he observed.

  “Woodstock.” The tall, thin man’s face took on a far-off dreamy expression. “Greatest three days of my life. I only hope the human race can get back to that place before it chokes on its own greenhouse gases and reality TV!”

  “And a historic site will do that?” asked Darren, taken aback by the intensity of the storekeeper’s emotion.

  “Well, it’s a first step.”

  “Anyway,” Griffin forged on, determined to keep the plan on track, “you’ve probably heard that the Giga-Millions ticket is going to expire on October sixth. So my friend and I had a crazy thought: What if the person who bought that ticket just forgot about it and stuffed it in a pocket or a junk drawer?”

  Mike had lost interest in the conversation and was dusting off a display of glow-in-the-dark yo-yos.

  “So,” Griffin continued, “we were wondering if you would help us narrow down which one of your customers might have it.”

  Mike hung his shaggy head. “In the end, it always comes down to the almighty dollar.”

  “We don’t want it for ourselves,” Griffin put in quickly.

  “That’s okay. Nobody’s going to use it to help the poor or feed the hungry, so you young dudes might as well have it. But it’s not going to make you happy.”

  “I’m willing to suffer,” Darren promised.

  “Can you tell us about your regular lottery customers?” Griffin requested. “People who play Giga-Millions every week? Chances are it’s one of them.”

  “I’m not so good with names, man. I’m not into labeling.”

  Griffin became aware of the first stirrings of that uneasy feeling he always got when a plan began to bog down. It was a really bad sign when it happened before the operation even got off the ground.

  And then he was staring right at it. Over Mike’s poncho-clad shoulder, a built-in videocam surveyed all the action that took place at the cash counter.

  “You have a security camera!” Griffin exclaimed.

  Mike nodded sadly. “Big Brother is keeping an eye on all of us.”

  “That’s great!” Griffin exclaimed. “If your security company keeps video archives from a year ago, we can go back to last October sixth and see everybody who bought a Giga-Millions ticket here that day!”

  The storekeeper made a face. “Back in the sixties, I joined protest marches against that kind of thing.”

  “But you’ll do it, right?” Darren asked breathlessly.

  Mike’s response was a world-weary shrug of poncho fabric. “Anything for my fellow man, man.”

  It took some doing to get in touch with the store’s security company and have them dig up the video footage from last October 6. It was all accomplished over the Internet, but Mike didn’t know how to use his computer beyond the bar code scanner and the power switch. Not only did he look like a leftover from 1969, but his understanding of technology came from that year as well.

  Eventually, Griffin managed to get the footage on the screen. Even fast-forwarding, it was going to take a long time to browse through an entire business day.

  “Too bad we don’t have Melissa,” Griffin murmured.

  “What for?” Darren yawned absently.

  “You’re kidding, right? She’s a total computer genius. It would take her about three seconds to program a way to skip through all the hours where nothing’s happening.”

  “If she could see the screen through all that hair.”

  “She’s got more smarts in one strand of that hair than you’ll ever have in your entire body!” Griffin may have been angry at his friends, but that didn’t mean he was going to let Darren put them down.

  By trial and error, Griffin sped up the playback, and they made some real progress. Through a rounded wide-angle lens behind the counter, he and Darren watched an endless parade of faces make their purchases and move off. Whenever the Giga-Millions machine coughed out another ticket, they would call Mike over for a customer ID.

  That was where the first stumbling block appeared. Mike knew everybody, but not exactly by name:

  “That’s the guy who’s always whistling show tunes.”

  “She takes her muffins lightly toasted, no butter.”

  “I think his name is Dave — or maybe it’s Percival.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember that hat. He doesn’t wear it anymore.”

  “I don’t know her, but her brother drives that big BMW.”

  “Nobody goes through more sunflower seeds than that guy.”

  Griffin dutifully noted every comment, including the one about Mr. Slovak: “That dude keeps asking me to stock ferret food. What does he think this is — a pet shop?”

  It turned out that October 6 had been a slow day for Giga-Millions at Mike’s Woodstock Market. In all, the store had sold ninety-six tickets to forty-seven different buyers. Once the master list was finished, Griffin began to quiz Mike about who might fit the profile he’d created in the plan for Operation Jackpot: Was anybody forgetful or disorganized? Was poor eyesight a factor in the group? A reputation as a hoarder? Which customers had a second home, an apartment in the city, or a storage locker? Had one of the forty-seven moved around that time?

  Mike had a lot of details, none of them worth very much. He recognized clothes. He could separate the Giants fans from the Jets fans. He knew what kind of wallets and pocketbooks his regulars had. He could connect faces with odors — Old Spice, sweat socks, bad breath, pickles, talcum powder, Axe body spray, chicken curry vindaloo.

  That night, as Luthor wolfed down a mountain of dog food, The Man With The Plan sliced and diced his data in an attempt to work out the next step. This was the point where Melissa would know a computer program that would deliver the very piece of information he needed. Or, failing that, Pitch would make a sarcastic comment, or Ben would start complaining, and somehow, magically, Griffin would see exactly what he had to do. He’d never appreciated just how crucial his team really was. Now he realized how much he relied on them to function as a sounding board to focus his own thinking. Luthor’s slavering and smacking of canine lips was a poor substitute.

  First, he rearranged his list into logical categories:

  It went on and on. Forty-seven suspects, hundreds of random details, most of them worthless. Not a single real address.

  “How will I ever get through it all?” Griffin moaned aloud.

  Luthor interrupted his eating to cast him a sympathetic look, punctuated by a rolling burp.

  One piece of data trumped all the others. It was the first of October. Only five days remained before the October 6 deadline. Then all this work would be worth exactly as much as the missing ticket.

  Zero.

  Where do you think you’re going?”

  His hand barely an inch from the front doorknob, Griffin froze. His mother stood at the entrance to the kitchen, arms akimbo.

  “Out,” he told her. “On my bike.”

  He figured that would satisfy her. Outside. Fresh air. Exercise.

  Alas, not so.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she demanded.

  “I’ll wear a helmet.”

  “I’m not your pet sitter,” she informed him. “You can’t just go gallivanting around town for hours, leaving me stuck with Luthor.”

  “I thought you liked him now, Mom.”

  “That’s beside the point,” she insisted. “He’s not my dog.”

  “He’s not my dog, either. He’s Savannah’s.”

  She wouldn’t budge. “You took him in. He’s your responsibility.”

  So Griffin started out on his bike with Luthor loping alongside at the end of his leash.

  Darren was waiting at the meeting point. “Jeez, Bing, why’d you bring the mutt? People will sla
m the door in our faces when they see that monster.”

  Griffin didn’t want Luthor on this mission any more than Darren did. But just hearing the challenge coming from his archenemy offended him on the Doberman’s behalf. “That shows how much you know, Vader. Anyone can see what a sensitive and intelligent dog he is.” He felt a twinge as he realized he sounded exactly like Savannah.

  The leash was torn out of his hand the first time Luthor saw a butterfly to chase. But except for the occasional side trip to sniff interesting flora, fauna, or fire hydrant, the Doberman was content to gallop at more or less the same pace as the two bicycles.

  When they made it to Green Hollow, their first stop was the Vandermere Senior Citizens’ Residence, not far from the train station and Mike’s Woodstock Market. Griffin was worried that dogs might not be allowed inside, but the security guard actually reached down and patted Luthor as they entered the sliding doors.

  “The residents love pets,” he commented.

  Griffin couldn’t help wondering if that statement would hold true if something spooked Luthor and he leveled the place.

  The Man With The Plan approached the front desk. “We’re looking for an older lady. White hair pulled back in a bun, thick glasses, eyesight not so good …” With a sinking heart, he panned the lobby. There were at least fifteen women on the couches who matched that exact description.

  “She looks like Santa’s wife,” added Darren. “You know, ho, ho, ho?”

  The receptionist was annoyed. “There are more than three hundred residents here —” She caught sight of Griffin’s printout from the store’s security camera. “Oh, you want Sadie Weintraub. She’s in 314. Take the elevator on your left.”

  Luthor loved the elevator, and it took both boys to drag him, whining and complaining, into the hall.

  Mrs. Sadie Weintraub, aka Mrs. Claus, didn’t get many visitors to her small, neat apartment, and was thrilled to see them.

  If there had been any doubt about her eyesight, it was dispelled when she exclaimed, “Oh, what a lovely little puppy!”

  Griffin and Darren exchanged a knowing glance. Mrs. Weintraub was a definite candidate. Anyone who could look at Luthor and see a puppy was more than capable of misreading the numbers on a lottery ticket.

  Griffin cleared his throat. “I understand that you play Giga-Millions.”

  Mrs. Weintraub brightened. “Every week like clockwork. I buy my tickets from Mike down the street. Such a handsome young man.”

  Further evidence of failing vision: that she perceived Mike as (a) handsome and (b) young.

  “Here’s the thing.” Griffin forged on as the old lady seated them at a small table and placed a burgeoning plate of homemade cookies between them. “There’s a winning ticket missing, and it was sold at Mike’s store. We’re — uh — helping Mike make sure none of his favorite customers lose out on a big prize.”

  “That’s very nice of you sweet boys,” she said, setting two tall glasses in front of them. “Regular milk, or chocolate?”

  “I’ll take chocolate,” mumbled Darren, his mouth full of cookie.

  She rambled on about the weather, her late husband, Bernie, and a Yankee game she’d attended in 1961, in which both Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle had hit home runs.

  Griffin struggled to keep the visit on topic. “So do you think you could be the one who misplaced that ticket?”

  “That’s impossible, dear,” she explained. “I’ve been playing the same numbers for more than thirty years — my birthday, Bernie’s birthday, nineteen, and forty-eight, for the year Harry Truman got elected. I read about that missing ticket. Those aren’t the right numbers.”

  Griffin felt his hopes deflating like a balloon. As a planner, he understood that it was rare for an operation to succeed on the very first try. Yet he’d had a good feeling about Mrs. Claus, who fit the profile to a T. But here she was, with today’s newspapers and the latest bestsellers on the coffee table, and the whole place tidy and sparkling clean. This woman was far too sharp to overlook a three-cent discrepancy on her grocery bill, much less a thirty-million-dollar lottery ticket.

  They thanked her for the cookies and excused themselves, taking the stairs this time so Luthor couldn’t fall in love with the elevator again.

  As they left the building, Griffin caught sight of a middle-aged man stepping out of Mike’s Woodstock Market.

  Darren snickered. “Nice hat, doofus.”

  The man wore a crocheted cap covered in multicolored beads, and a handwoven vest over his shirt. He climbed into a green van and started away from the curb.

  Griffin stared. Macramé window hangings covered everything but the windshield.

  Beaded hat … green van packed with junk …

  The hoarder!

  Mister, come back!” Griffin called out.

  But it was too late. The vehicle was already halfway down the street.

  The two boys jumped on their bikes and took off after it, Luthor joining the chase and soon outstripping the cyclists. They lost sight of the van a few times, but the Doberman kept them on the trail. The driver turned onto a side street and slowed down, approaching his destination. The three pursuers fell into line behind the van and pulled up when it turned into the driveway of a small cottage.

  The front porch confirmed that they’d indeed found their hoarder. It was clogged with lawn furniture and all manner of outdoor ornaments, from scowling gargoyles to colorful unicorns and patriotic eagles. Pots of varying sizes stood on every open surface, along with garden gnomes and unused walkway lights.

  The man got out of the van and began to pick his way through the obstacle course to the front door. Griffin jumped off his bike and nearly wiped out on a pink flamingo camouflaged by tall uncut grass. “Mister, can we talk to you?”

  The man’s eyes found Griffin, then Darren, and finally Luthor. “Keep your dog off my lawn.”

  “Sure thing.” Griffin clipped the leash around the handlebars of his bike, and he and Darren approached the porch. “Mike sent us — you know, from the convenience store?” He outlined their quest for the missing ticket and their theory that one of the regular lottery customers might have misplaced it.

  “It couldn’t have been me,” the man told him. “I check the numbers every week.”

  “Maybe you got too busy and forgot one time,” Darren suggested.

  The man shook his head. “I’m extremely organized.”

  Griffin and Darren took in the wreckage of the porch and the state of the property, which was overgrown and strewn with lawn accessories of all varieties, including two upended plaster lions and a concrete birdbath.

  “Just in case, would you mind if we came inside and had a look around?” Griffin requested. “It would be a shame to throw away all that money just because of a little oversight.”

  “More than a shame. A personal tragedy … for me,” Darren put in honestly.

  The man adjusted the beaded cap and frowned. “I can’t have the dog.”

  “Right,” Griffin confirmed. “Just us.”

  Leaving Luthor clipped to the bike, they approached the small house and followed their host inside. Luthor rumbled a low complaint. He was used to the Drysdale rules, which stated that animals were entitled to all freedoms and privileges accorded to humans.

  The interior made the chaos of the porch seem neat. Griffin had never been to the rain forest, but he’d always imagined it looking like this. Long macramé planters and hangings dangled so low from the ceiling, and random stuff was piled so high on tabletops, that barely any light penetrated from the windows. Every surface was layered with old mail, cash register receipts, used movie tickets, art projects, strange ornaments, candleholders, picture frames with no pictures, and all manner of odds and ends. Valuable antiques stood side by side with cheap plastic junk and toys that could have originated inside Happy Meals. But mostly there were books, hundreds of them, their pages jammed with multiple Post-it notes and makeshift bookmarks. Griffin noticed the logo of th
e Green Hollow Public Library on the spines. It matched the letterhead on many of the pieces of mail — addressed to a Mr. Tobias Fielder and marked OVERDUE NOTIFICATION.

  Darren caught Griffin’s eye. “We’re never going to be able to find anything in here! The FBI couldn’t find anything in here!”

  “We have to try,” Griffin whispered back. Then to their host, “Uh, Mr. Fielder. How can you be so sure that you didn’t misplace that ticket?”

  The man took off his macramé cap and hung it on the shiny Winged Victory figure atop a bowling trophy. “This may seem a little messy to you boys, but I know exactly where everything is. I can lay my hand on any of my possessions within a minute. For instance, my original animation cell from Walt Disney’s Fantasia —” He strode to the dining room table, lifted up a salad spinner, moved aside a stack of magazines, and reached under what looked like a Laundromat bundle of boxer shorts. “Voilà.” A small framed cell of Mickey Mouse as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. It was in perfect condition, not even dusty. In fact, despite the total disorder, the house seemed very clean. It was just that Mr. Fielder had never thrown anything away.

  Darren was impressed. “You know, that’s probably worth a lot of money.”

  “I’d never sell it,” Mr. Fielder told him. “I’m independently wealthy. I quit my job after I won the lottery in 2009. And I’ve been living exactly the life I want ever since.”

  “Wait a minute! Back up!” ordered Darren. “You won the lottery?”

  Mr. Fielder nodded. “It was a smaller prize than the one you boys are thinking about — a little under four million, and I had to share it with two other winners. The point is it’s just not possible for me to forget to check a ticket. Most people are less disciplined because, after all, what’s the probability of winning? But me? I know that dreams can come true. I’ve watched it happen before.”

  Darren was practically drooling. “Tell me your secrets. What numbers do you play?”

  The winner shrugged. “No secrets. I let the machine choose the numbers. I guess somebody up there just liked me that week.”